


Words unsaid

by Heidigard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Crying Dean Winchester, Crying!Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidigard/pseuds/Heidigard
Summary: Cass has died for Dean yet again, but this time, it's different. And Sam has to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 126





	Words unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick coda to 15x18 I knocked out this afternoon. No beta, no fine-tuning. Thus, it's not very good, but I wanted to get deeper into Dean's thought process and see how Sam would react to the news.  
> I might give this a work-over at some point.

Eventually, the phone stops vibrating. Dean knows that he should have picked up. Sam will be worried. But the truth is he just can’t deal with any more right now, can’t muster the courage to talk to anyone, even his brother, because talking to Sam, hearing his concerned voice, being bombarded with frantic questions would mean he’d have to tell him. He would have to acknowledge what had happened, and he just can’t face that: breaking the news that Cass is dead, maybe for good this time.

What’s worse is that Dean isn’t sure he could control himself well enough right now to keep it to the bleak, _unbearable_ bare-bones version of events. He might tell Sam more than just that Cass sacrificed himself to save Dean’s life. Something else might slip out, words that Dean is not ready for, feelings that he is only now beginning to consciously process.

Then again, even if he picked up the phone, there is a chance he might not be able to speak at all through the guilt and grief constricting his throat. That might worry Sam even more than his failure to answer the calls. No, he needs to sort out his thoughts first before he faces his brother. And Jack! Gods, there is Jack, too! He just lost a father, and no matter how Dean might feel about Jack’s place in their family, he knows that losing Cass will be a blow for the nephilim.

For now, he is alone, though, sitting with his head in his hands. Sam and Jack won’t be back for hours. There is nobody here to witness his tears – even if there was, he wouldn’t be able to hold them in, not knowing what he knows now – so he lets them fall, staining his jeans, sliding down his wrists into the sleeves of his jacket. They leave cold trails on his skin, like the caresses of dead fingers.

His feeble sobs are strangely loud in the silence of the basement, amplified by the echo bouncing off the walls. The noise creates a strange kind of feedback loop in his muddled head. Soon, all he can hear are his own shaky breaths and Castiel’s words, reverberating inside his scull like a mantra. “ _The one thing I want - it’s something I know I can’t have_.” “ _I love you_.” “ _Goodbye, Dean_.”

Like so often in their lives, it had all happened so fast! One moment they were running from an enemy, the next, one of them was dead. Only this time, in the pressurised, compressed moments in between, Castiel had confronted Dean with a string of truths he had not been prepared for, had never allowed himself to consider fully. Cas had overwhelmed him, and like the emotionally stunted, emotionally _incompetent_ SOB that he is, he had simply frozen. If he had allowed himself to think about all of this before – his own feelings, his wants and deepest wishes - he might have had an answer ready. Now, he has all the time in the world to think - now that it’s too late.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time and effort for him to cut through the bullshit and finally be honest with himself. Now that he has certainty to drown out his doubts, now that he _knows_ what Cass had been feeling, it’s disappointingly easy to face the fact that Dean feels very much the same and has been for years. If only he had gotten his stalled brain back online a little faster, had dared to cast aside the veil of manly self-delusion a little sooner, Cass might have died at least knowing that his feelings were reciprocated. The stark, shocking truth that, after years and years, Dean has pulled his head out of his arse just a few minutes too late is enough to nail him to the floor with regret, unable to even entertain the thought of ever getting up again.

He doesn’t even have a body to bury this time. He can’t channel his grief into preparing a shroud, building a pyre, watching another mortal shell go up in flames. So, the sorrow gnaws at him, poking more and more holes into his façade through which more and more tears are streaming in an endless torrent. How is he supposed to move on from this, losing not only his best friend once again, but the love of his life?

Dean curls in further, sliding sideways down the wall until he’s fully lying on the floor. The regret is so overwhelming that everything is growing numb in him. The mantra continues to circle in his thoughts, but now there is a new sentence joining in, all the more painful for remaining unuttered. “ _Of course I love you, too_,” Dean thinks, as loudly as he can.

:( :( :(

Sam bursts into the bunker a while later, his eyes frantically scanning the room even as he thunders down the stairs, Jack in his wake. “Dean?” he calls. “Cass?”

Only a muffled echo greets them, dying as soon as he closes his mouth. The silence following behind is deafening, ominous, too loud for their home. The simmering feeling of foreboding, a constant companion in their line of work, grows exponentially in Sam. He knows this kind of quiet all too well. He scans the room again, looking for clues as to what might have happened. He already saw the Impala parked in its usual spot, so it is unlikely that his brothers have gone out. Whatever happened that is keeping Dean from answering his phone, it must have happened here.

There is nothing. Not a single item appears to be out of place. There are no signs of a struggle visible from his position in the War Room, but he doesn’t feel placated.

“What if they have vanished, too?” Jack’s voice is trembling with suppressed panic. Sam presses his lips together, shaking his head. His instincts tell him to keep looking. “No, they are here. They have to be.” He walks a few steps further into the room, shoulders high and tight with tension. Sam is just as worried about what he may find in his search as he is about what he might _not_ find, but he knows that whatever there is to see, he doesn’t want Jack to stumble into it. After all, Jack’s only three and has had enough trauma for one day.

“Jack, wait here.” The younger man looks set to argue, but Sam throws him a quelling look. “Please. Just sit.” He gestures at the empty chairs around the glass table. “Keep an eye on the door,” he adds, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Sam draws his weapon, but keeps it pointed at the floor as he starts his sweep of the building. Down the hall, into the kitchen, around corners… There is no sign of Dean and Cass, or anyone else, but the hairs on his arms are standing on end by the time he descends the stairs to the second level. The atmosphere down here matches that of a tomb, a subtle indicator that Death has paid them a visit not too long ago. Sam picks up his step, now almost running along the corridor as fear for his family drives him.

Door 7B is wide open. His heart skips a beat. There are many reasons Dean and Cass could be down here, in the archives or the interrogation room beyond, he tells himself. They wouldn’t have heard him calling from all the way up in the War Room. But Sam has learned to trust his instincts, and they tell him that something is not right.

He creeps along the wall as stealthily as he can and waits by the door, listening for a moment for any movement or indication of what is going on inside the room. The sound of a quiet, breathy sob momentarily freezes him. The noise repeats, and Sam realises that this is not the cry of a torture victim tied to their chair.

It’s the sound of a broken heart.

Cold dread settles on him like a wet blanked. He hurries into the room.

It takes him a few seconds to spot Dean on the floor, curled up against the wall, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. There are wet splatters on the ground, but it doesn’t look like blood so Sam ignores the liquid. What immediately catches his eye, though, is the red hand-print on his brother’s shoulder, which most certainly _is_ blood. He’s at Dean’s side in an instant.

“Dean!” Leaving the gun on the floor, he reaches out both hands to grasp Dean’s shoulders, carefully avoiding the bloody print. “Hey. Dean.”

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice emerges muffled and hoarse from behind the hands still hiding his face. A wet exhale follows, the sob muted with what seems like great effort as Dean’s shoulders tense. Sam tries to shift him upright and his brother relaxes into the support a moment later, like a deflated blow-up doll. He doesn’t resist the manoeuvring at all. When he is mostly vertical, sitting against the wall, Dean scrubs his palms across his face, as if he can push the tears back through is skin if he presses hard enough. He gives up a second later, letting his hands sink.

His cheeks are wet and blotchy as he raises watery eyes to Sam’s face, fresh tears welling up and detaching themselves from his dark lashes as Sam watches, stunned into silence. “Sammy,” Dean repeats, sounding strangled. There is more, but it doesn’t make its way past the obstruction in Dean’s throat.

It takes Sam a few seconds to spur his mouth into action. The sight of his brother wearing the face of a trauma victim has blanked out his brain for a few moments. He _knows_ his brother, has witnessed him at a few pretty low points in their lives, but something is new about this.

Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s again for a moment, then skitter away immediately. No further words seem to be forthcoming. “Dean, what happened?” Sam tries gently, moving one hand against Dean’s neck to cradle his jaw and keep his head up. No answer. “Where’s Cass?” he tries again. The words seem to hit Dean like a blow to the stomach. He sags forward, hands going back to covering his face.

“I… He…” the sentence dies. It is clear that Dean can’t speak. It is equally obvious that something must have happened to Cass. Sam pushes down the spike of pain in his gut. If Cass didn’t make it, he needs to keep it together for his remaining brother now. He draws a shaky breath himself, digging for resolve.

“Ok, let’s get you up off this floor,” he suggests, gripping his brother more tightly in preparation for hauling him to his feet.. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Sam hasn’t seen any physical injuries on Dean, but it’s better to make sure. Dean is obviously in shock and Sam will have a better chance at evaluating the situation if they are not crouching on the floor. Dean shakes his head no, a jerky, aborted motion very unlike his usual controlled movements. His hand lands heavily on Sam’s forearm, but he is holding on, not pushing away.

Together, they stand. The change in position seems to stir something in Dean. He glances at the room, his eyes lingering for a moment on the wall at the far end. Then he’s moving with Sam, faster than anticipated, almost as if he is trying to escape the room. Sam rolls with it. If Dean wants to put distance between himself and 7B, that’s fine.

They don’t make it very far before Dean’s strength gives out again. Just at the bottom of the stairs, they stop as Dean collapses onto the bottom step. Sam can see his shoulders rising and falling in a deep breath, desperate determination swiping away the slack expression of shock. Before Sam can decide whether to try and haul Dean up the stairs or give him a few minutes of rest, Dean looks up at him.

“Sam,” he says, and his voice sounds stronger now, if no less hoarse, “Sit down.” Sam settles down next to his brother, shoulder brushing his in silent support. When nothing more follows, Sam looks over at Dean. He can see the walls coming up again, as if Dean is rebooting his defence mechanisms right before his eyes.

“We tried to kill Billie, but it didn’t work. She came after us. Here.” Sam nods. He knows not to interrupt. Dean’s resolve seems fragile, his composure a brittle mask. His heart constricts when he notices that despite his level tone, the tears still have not stopped. Dean doesn’t seem to be aware of them anymore. They drip onto the floor between his feet, leaving dark stains on the concrete.

“She cornered us… in there.” He vaguely waves one hand down the corridor before it rejoins the other, hanging lifelessly between his knees. “I thought we were both –“ Dean’s voice cuts off on a shuddering inhale. “I thought we were both gonners for sure, but Cass… he…” He breaks off again, squeezing his eyes shut. Dean seems to struggle for a moment, searching for words to describe the events, but gives up after a few seconds. He exhales heavily. “Cass sacrificed himself to save me. He’s dead, Sam.”

Getting his suspicion confirmed is like a dagger to the heart. Sam can tell that there is more, that there is something _huge_ hiding under these simple words, but he chooses not to push, can’t push. His head sinks forward, suddenly heavy with grief.

They sit for a few minutes. Eventually, Sam does break the silence. As much as he wants to give his brother time to process their loss, they are still in the middle of the biggest boss fight of their lives. Many people close to them have died today, not just Cass. They can’t afford to miss any details, so Sam has to ask: “How…?”

He is startled when Dean gives a bark of humourless laughter steeped in so much bitterness that it curdles his blood. “Remember the Empty has beef with Billie? Cas figured that it was the only thing that could keep her occupied long enough to... And you know what that dumb angel did?” Dean stops for breath.

Sam has an inkling of the predicament they must have been in. Summoning a cosmic entity like the Empty to manifest on their plane of existence is a monumental task requiring weeks, maybe months of research, powerful magic and probably a complicated ritual with little chance of success. How could they have found a way when they were so short on time, with Billie hot on their heels chasing them down hallways?

Dean continues, voice bitter and tight. “He made a deal, Sam. When Jack was dead, that fucking dumbass made a deal with the Empty itself to save Jack, and he figured that _now_ was a good time to ask the Empty to collect.” So this was the reason for Dean’s anger, Sam thinks. Already not on the best of terms with their adopted son, Dean has now found another reason to hate him: Cas made a deal to save Jack that ultimately, somehow, ended up taking him from Dean.

But then something occurs to Sam, niggling at the back of his mind. He frowns. “Why now? I mean, if it could have gotten Cass anytime, why now?” The moment the words leave his mouth, Sam wants to take them back. Beside him, Dean crumples, folding over, head on his knees, a keening sob shaking his entire frame. Startled, Sam places a hand on his brother’s shoulder to comfort him, but gets shaken off immediately as Dean shoots upright again. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

Sam jerks back, raising both hands in surrender. Dean reigns himself in a second later. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Just… Cass is dead because of me. Because he thought _I_ was worth dying for.” Dean tears up again, staring at Sam with pleading eyes.

“Dean,” Sam tries cautiously, “you know I’m so sorry about Cass. He was my brother, too. But I still don’t understand. What happened to him?”

Dean wipes his snotty nose on the sleeve of his shirt, sniffling. When he continues, he is talking to the floor. It seems to be either that or stay mute. “The deal was that the Empty would take Cass the moment he was truly happy.” Dean snorts. Sam frowns deeply, but makes every effort to hold himself back from commenting. The more Dean says, the less sense he is making. Had Cass been unhappy for all this time he had been living with them? Sam would have liked to think that the angel had found solace in being part of a family, in fatherhood, in having a home. It’s bewildering and painful to think that he had not been happy with them, not in the way that Sam would have thought.

What’s more, why would a life-or-death situation, being chased by Billie, living under constant threat from Chuck, make Cass happy?

Dean is not done yet, though. “He figured it out, Sam,” he breathes. “Cass found the thing that made him happy, and he chose _that_ moment to let himself feel it.” Sam waits, watching Dean wipe a hand across his face from the corner of his eye, heart beating painfully in his tight chest. “That stupid angel. His happiness… He said –“ Dean draws another wet breath. “He said he _loved_ me.” There is dead silence in the pause. Sam’s inhale stalls in his lungs. “And that is what killed him.”

Sam is stunned speechless, but in Dean, finally getting those words out seems to have broken the dam holding back the flood. He’s talking fast now. “He was in love with me, Sam, for all those years, and he said he thought it was something he couldn’t have, so it wasn’t a happy state. But then he realised that it was not about what he could or couldn’t have. What made him happy was… just the state of… _being_ in love with me, and… and telling me. And that’s what he did. And the Empty came. And I was stupid, Sam, so stupid! It was just so much to take in, and I didn’t say it back, Sam! I let the Empty take him without having said it back. It’s my fault he was happy in the first place, and it’s my fucking fault he died, and you _know_ I’m not worth that. Loving me is toxic. You know that better than anyone, but he did anyway and it made him _happy_. And _I_ _didn’t say it back_.” Dean is babbling and Sam doesn’t know what to do. He absorbs the new information, files it away for later. Right now, he has to keep his brother from imploding, but he doesn’t have any idea how.

He puts a cautious arm around Dean’s shoulders. This time, he is not shaken off. Leaning his head against Dean’s temple, he searches for comforting words. “He knew,” he tries quietly. “Cas knew you loved him right back. I mean, _everybody_ knew. _I_ knew.”

“But that’s just it, Sam. He _didn’t_ know, or he might have allowed himself to feel it sooner. The Empty would have taken him sooner. And now he’ll _never_ know.” Sam has no answer for that.

Jack chooses that moment to step into the opening at the top of the staircase. His eyes are wide, taking in the broken form of Dean, Sam hugging his brother to his side, and no Cass in sight. The kid swallows. “Cass is gone?”

Dean extracts himself from Sam’s arms and stands. Wiping his wet face with his sleeve, he ascends the stairs two at a time, shouldering past Jack. Sam sighs, brushing his hands across his thighs before unfolding his tall frame and joining Jack at the top of the stairs. “I’m sorry,” he says, as he watches grief crumple up Jack’s youthful features. He wraps his arms around his son and holds him close.

end

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I would really appreciate a comment :)


End file.
